


Safe With Me

by papesdontsellthemselves



Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Apples, Canon Era, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, poor spottie, race is soft and italian, yee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 11:58:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18498514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papesdontsellthemselves/pseuds/papesdontsellthemselves
Summary: “Uh, Conlon’s outside.  He, uh, he asked for ya.”Race nodded slowly, allowing the words to sink in.  His odd relationship with Spot Conlon wasn’t a secret, but they generally kept their little meetups private.  It was rare that they ever met up in Manhattan.  Usually, Race would head over to Brooklyn for a night, and even then, it would be awhile before he and Spot slipped upstairs unnoticed.  They were never this blatant.





	Safe With Me

**Author's Note:**

> tw: alcohol, descriptions of death  
> it gets soft tho dw dw

Race kicked his feet onto Albert’s lap, humming contentedly as he toed off his boots, letting his feet relax for the first time that day. It had been a particularly hot selling day, the new Summer sun blaring relentlessly down on the city, leaving Race more tired than usual. 

It wasn’t like the Summer bothered him. In fact, he preferred Summer to Winter. It was a lot easier to manage intense heat than intense cold. Besides, their clothes were all painfully inadequate for the biting cold of Winter, but that was never as issue in the summer. You couldn’t pull a jacket out of thin air, but you could strip down a layer.

Albert lifted the apple he was nursing away from Race’s feet, “Getcha stinky feet offa me,” he whined.

Race just smirked, lifting one of his feet to poke at Albert’s chin, “Nah, m’comfy right ‘ere.”

Race cackled as Albert groaned, trying to shove his legs off his lap, but huffing when Race stayed put.

“Can’t I ever enjoy a simple, quiet meal around ‘ere?” Albert complained, batting at Race’s foot when he tried to lift it again.

“Not with me around,” Race said, innocently.

Albert glared at him, holding challenging eye contact as he lifted a hand, a small smile flitting through his eyes as he began to tickle the bottom of Race’s foot. Race yelped, jerking his foot upwards and accidentally kicking Albert in the jaw.

“Ow, fuck!” Albert shrieked, successfully pushing a now laughing Race off of him, “Ya damn shit, I’ma soak ya.”

“Looks like I gotcha first,” Race countered, moving to cross his legs underneath him.

“‘Ey, Higgins, ya in here?”

Both boys looked toward the doorway, brightening when they saw Finch poking his head into the room.

“Right ‘ere,” Race said, waving to get Finch’s attention.

“Right,” Finch was shifting awkwardly on his feet and Race’s stomach sank. Something didn’t seem right, “Uh, Conlon’s outside. He, uh, he asked for ya.”

Race nodded slowly, allowing the words to sink in. His odd relationship with Spot Conlon wasn’t a secret, but they generally kept their little meetups private. It was rare that they ever met up in Manhattan. Usually, Race would head over to Brooklyn for a night, and even then, it would be awhile before he and Spot slipped upstairs unnoticed. They were never this blatant.

“Did he say what he wanted?” Race asked, trying to leave the nerves out of his voice.

Finch shook his head, “Nah, but he’s drunk as shit.”

Race paled, wordlessly standing and pushing past Finch. He could hear people murmuring behind him, but he ignored it in favor of rushing towards the front of the lodging house. Spot hated alcohol. He couldn’t stand the taste, or the way it made him feel, and the memories associated with it were enough to leave him trembling against his will. Race had never seen him do more than scowl at a beer bottle. 

If he was drunk, something was very, very wrong.

Spot was sitting on the front steps of the building by the time Race got there, a bottle of god knows what held loosely in his grip. His head was ducked down, hanging low between his legs. He was completely still, but as Race neared, he could see the slight tremor of his hands around the bottle.

Race was careful to approach him, keeping his footsteps quiet, but loud enough to warn Spot of his presence. He cautiously knelt down in front of Spot, reaching out to tap his chin to get his attention. 

Spot jerked, unfocused eyes meeting Race’s own. They were red and bloodshot, pain and something that looked sickeningly like terror swimming below the surface.

“Sean,” Race breathed, lips slightly parted as he searched Spot’s face for a clue to what was happening, “What-”

Spot shook his head, bowing his head back down, “I don’ wanna.”

Race frowned, “Don’t wanna what?”

Spot stayed still, his eyes glued to the ground between his feet, “I dunno, I jus’-” he looked at Race, desperation the only discernible emotion on his face, “I need you.”

A shiver went down Race’s spine, as if cold water had been dumped down his back. Spot never allowed himself to be this vulnerable, even around Race, whom he seemed to trust a greater deal than others.

Race blinked pushing his shock aside and mentally forcing himself to stay focused, “What do you need?” He asked, gently prying the bottle out of Spot’s grip and ignoring his weak protests.

Spot seemed to be having trouble forming his thoughts into words. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, looking increasingly distressed as each dragging second passed.

“Can I…” he swallowed, “Can I stay the night? I- I can’t- I don’-”

“Shh,” Race reached out, cupping his cheek. This sort of comfort was rare between them, but it felt necessary, “‘Course ya can stay. C’mon, m’sure Jackie’ll let us have his penthouse tonight,” he stood, hoisting Spot up with him, “ya good ta walk?”

Spot shrugged, “Dunno.”

Race sighed, “Aight, that’s okay. I gotcha.”

He draped Spot’s arm around his shoulders, firmly holding him around the waist as they made their way back into the lodging house. Race bit his lip, considering his options and settling to set Spot on the back stairs while he looked for Jack. 

He found Jack in the kitchen, trying to sort out a quarrel between a couple of the littles, who seemed to be fussing over their bread. Race cleared his throat, earning a few awestruck look from the younger newsies.

Jack turned his head, the worn tinge to his eyes evident, even in the dim lighting, “Heya, Racer, whatcha need?”

 

Race’s eyes flicked to the littles and he jerked his head, indicating for Jack to follow him to the hallway.

Jack sighed, “Ya’d better not kill each other,” he muttered to the kids as he joined Race outside the kitchen. The kid’s giggles rang out behind them.

“What’s goin’ on?” Jack asked, looking vaguely annoyed and incredibly off-put.

Race scuffed his toe on the rotting wood floor, feeling strangely nervous to be asking Jack such a big favor, “Could I, uh,” he cleared his throat, “listen, so, uh, Conlon’s here-” Jack’s eyes widened and Race held up a hand, “-n’ he ain’t doin’ too hot, so uh, can we stay in your penthouse just for tonight? I wanna make sure he don’t do nothin’ he’s gonna regret.”

Jack frowned, shifting his jaw, “Not doin’ hot how?”

Race shrugged, “Dunno exactly, but he’s drunk and ya know he don’t ever drink, so somethin’ ain’t right,” he trailed off for a moment, thinking, “an’ he looks pretty spooked. Somethin’ bad happened over in Brooklyn I think.”

Jack seemed to have an internal argument before he clicked his tongue, throwing up his hands, “Yeah, go ahead. Jus’ don’t touch none of my drawings.”

Race saluted him lazily, already turning to retrieve Spot, “Will do, Kelly. Much appreciated.”

Spot hadn’t moved since Race had left him, but he seemed to be shaking harder now. Spasms were ripping through his torso and legs and it sounded as if he were struggling to take fulfilling breaths. He would gasp helplessly for a few seconds before forcing a deeper breath, but it didn’t seem to do the trick. Race watched him for a moment, his worry growing heavier in his stomach.

“C’mon,” he said, kneeling in front of Spot once more, “Jackie gave us the okay, let’s getcha somewhere quiet.” he helped Spot up again, his heart breaking as a ghost of a whimper escaped Spot’s lips. He seemed to curl closer into Race.

It took awhile, but eventually they made it up the ridiculous amount of stairs and singular ladder length to Jack’s penthouse. There were two mattresses up there, but Race decided to settle them both onto the one closest to the ladder.

The journey up must have worn Spot out, because he was already dozing by the time Race got comfortable. He pursed his lips, taking note of the way Spot’s eyebrows still scrunched, even in his sleeping state. He ran a gentle hand through Spot’s hair, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of his head before sinking into the mattress and allowing sleep to overcome him as well.

XXX

“Race?”

Spot’s small, scared voice jarred Race awake, leaving him alert in a matter of seconds. He sat up, taking a minute to gather his bearings before turning to Spot, who was also sitting up.

His teeth were chattering and he had his arms wrapped protectively around his stomach, eyes flicking helplessly around him. The lost aura that manifested around him almost made him seem younger.

“What’s goin’ on?” Race said, shifting closer to Spot, “What’s wrong?”

 

Spot locked eyes with him, terror growing stronger, “Where am I?”

Race blew out a breath. He’d been dreading this.

“Jack’s penthouse,” Spot’s eyes widened and he rushed to continue, “Ya showed up hammered as shit an’ scared as shit and I wanted ta take ya somewhere private.”

Spot seemed to relax, though it did nothing for his tense composure, “Oh.”

Race hovered his hand over Spot’s arms, waiting for the nod of approval before carefully pulling one of his hands away from his stomach and intertwining their fingers, “What happened, caro?”

Spot looked down at their hands, a slow eruption seemingly happening in his chest as he began to speak, “I...Boots, uh, ya know. The little bugger from my borough,” he stopped for a moment, forcing a deep breath, “he, um, he was messin’ around in the streets today ‘cause it was warm enough ta play and he-he-” Race squeezed his hand, prompting him to continue, “he didn’t see the carriage comin’ an’ I tried ta warn ‘im, but,” Spot shook his head, “was too late. Ran ‘im right over. There-” he choked, “there was so much blood, Racer. Ain’t never coulda guessed there was that much blood in such a lil’ guy, but it was all there. On the pavement, on the carriage, on his clothes...on my clothes.”

Race sucked in a breath, feeling slightly nauseous. He forced himself to push the images that entered his mind out.

“He was my responsibility,” Race looked back at Spot as he spoke again, “he was my fuckin’ responsibility an’ I-” He cut himself off, blinking rapidly as his face crumpled, giving way to a vehement sob.

Race ran his thumb across Spot’s knuckles, searching for the words to say. There was no way to fix this- no way to take away Spot’s pain, but damnit if he was going to try his best to make him feel safe again.

“My mama used ta say this thing to me,” he began softly, “when things were bad, or my dad was mean, she’d say, ‘Tieni duro, passerà’. Over and over, she’d repeat that, until I eventually believed her.”

Spot hiccuped, looking at him, “What’s it mean?”

“Stay strong, it will pass,” Race said, confidently, “whatcha had ta see sounds like hell, but it’s not your fault, Spot. Sometimes shit happens an’ it’s fucked up, but it’s jus’ how it came to pass. Ain’t no one’s fault.”

Spot let out a shaky breath, leaning into Race’s chest.

“An’ ya know what?” Race asked, wrapping his arms around Spot and burrowing his nose into his hair, “Sono qui per te, tesoro.”

Spot hummed, sending warm vibrations through Race’s chest, “What’s that one mean?”

“I’m here for you, love.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, chiefs  
> tumblr: papesdontsellthemselves  
> feedback is always appreciated


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